


Another Era

by CommonNonsense



Series: Tumblr-Inspired Ficlets [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:06:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With nothing else to hope for, Sherlock relives his aborted tarmac confession in the 1800s London of his mind palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Era

Sherlock hears the shrill whistle of the trains before he opens his eyes back in his mind palace. A train station, but no crowds, no busy people bustling past on their way to destinations unknown. Alone, then, ready to board the train out. Unrealistic, he realizes: no way there would only be one train at a station like this, but it’s the closest approximation to the empty airstrip he can manage in this setting.

He opens his eyes and John is there, hands in his coat pockets, patiently watching. Sherlock glances around. There is no Mycroft waiting to push him onto the train–of course not, here he’s too fat to even move about. More importantly, there is no Mary. It’s the scene he wanted in London present: a moment alone with John before being sent off to the continent on a suicide mission.

“So where are you going, then?” John asks. Without Mary, without the looming birth of a baby, the conversation skips past the difficult pleasantries.

“Oh, some undercover work in eastern Europe.”

“For how long?”

“Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.” Somehow, Sherlock can’t bring himself to tell the truth about it even here. To do otherwise would make John unhappy, and he can’t so much as imagine doing it intentionally.

John nods, accepting, but his brow is crinkled with concern. Sherlock shoves his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

“John,” he begins, and the words spill forth the exact same way they did on the tarmac. “John, there’s something I should say. Meant to say always and then never have.” He pauses. The John here has the same expression on his face as the John on the tarmac did: a mix of apprehension and acceptance, as though he’s suspicious but is afraid to know for sure what will come next. “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now …”

He tries to continue, but finds the words are sticking in his throat just as they did before. He had made a joke, then, but here he shouldn’t have to. Even in this ridiculous fantasy, he’s terrified of John’s disapproval. He shuts his eyes. The train whistles again nearby.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs. He is suddenly in Sherlock’s space, one hand gently gripping his shoulder. The other grazes the side of his face, delicate and careful. “I … think I understand. And you should know that I’ve always meant to say something, too.”

When Sherlock dares to look again, John is there, his face mere inches away from his own. He is suddenly no longer the Victorian Dr. Watson of this setting, but his John: gray-blond hair ruffled instead of slicked, a soft fitted jumper under the reliable black jacket. He smiles, soft and sad. “Leave it to you to wait until now to tell me you love me, you git.”

Sherlock quirks a smile at that. “I always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“God, Sherlock–” John’s thought is cut off as he surges upward and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s. Sherlock gets his arms around John’s shoulders and clutches him to his body, tilting his head and slotting his lips between John’s. The kiss is warm and soft and desperate all at once, their breaths coming in short huffs between them. John’s fingers slide up and through Sherlock’s hair, pulling it from the combed-back style and holding as though grounding himself to the moment. Sherlock slips one arm under John’s jacket and grips tight to John’s jumper.

“Don’t leave,” John murmurs, pulling away just long enough to speak. He nudges his nose against Sherlock’s as though afraid to break away for too long. “You don’t have to go to the continent. We’ll find another way around this.”

Sherlock wants to believe it. Instead of answering, he dips his head back down and kisses John again.

A little voice is telling him how pathetic this is, staying in this ridiculous fantasy he knows can’t come true for a hundred reasons. In the real world, John is married. He’s happy. He’s expecting a child with his wife.

Sherlock tunes it all out and submerges back into the safety of his mind palace, pretending for one minute more that there’s a time when he can have John after all.


End file.
